This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/DrElsewhere on 2024-10-22 14:32:54+00:00.
I knocked on the door again.
“Delivery for Mr. Morris!”
I slipped off my backpack and began to unzip it when the door squeaked open. In the dimness of the apartment I found a pair of light blue eyes below a shock of white hair. Deep wrinkles snaked through a face that was clearly sleep-deprived.
Not that I cared about this guy’s sleep habits. This was my last delivery until I was free for the day.
“Are you Mr. Morris?” I asked
I reached into my backpack to fetch his delivery but my progress was halted when the door flung open and Mr. Morris grabbed my shoulders and threw me into his apartment.
My nose crashed into hardwood so violently I tasted blood and my eyes didn’t adjust right away to my new dark environment. All I heard was the slamming of a door followed by a succession of dead bolts being engaged. I felt the fabric of my backpack on my stomach as I lay sprawled on my belly. Then there was pain in my ankle.
“Throw the backpack over there,” Mr. Morris demanded.
“What the fuck are you doing-”
Mr. Morris applied more pressure with his boot and my ankle screamed in pain.
“Throw it!” He yelled.
My sight had adjusted by now but I didn’t need my eyes to feel the cold steel pressed against the back of my head. The vibrations of a gun being cocked seemed to reverberate through my skull. It was enough to scare me into submission.
I wrestled my backpack from under my weight then tossed it down the short hallway.
A robbery. This was a fucking robbery. This was my final delivery of the day before I was free to do whatever I wanted . . . and now look at what happened. Side hustles can really become a pain in the ass sometimes.
“On your feet,” the old man demanded. “Up, up. Hurry. Go into the living room.”
I kept my composure as best as possible. I wanted to yell out in the hopes a neighbor would hear and call the police. However, having a pistol pointed to the back of your head really keeps your lips pinched together.
“Take a left. Here. Keep going.”
Sporadically placed lamps were the only source of illumination in the place. One of the lamps flickered like it was blinking. Yellow light bounced its way across dust covered furniture and old wallpaper. But the more I walked, the more I realized the scale of this apartment. It was huge by New York City standards and must have cost a fortune. I also noticed how cluttered the place was. Every surface was littered with books, documents, and folders. A large world map hung against one wall and was decorated with pins and string. There were empty pizza boxes stacked in one corner. One table supported a small army of empty whiskey bottles. This guy was clearly a paranoid hermit and mentally unwell. I didn’t even know Mr. Morris but I felt a burning hatred for the man.
“The chair. Sit.”
I sat and followed his orders to place my hands through the cross rails of the chair back. Coarse rope was dragged across my wrists then through parts of the chair before being secured in place with a sturdy knot.
I was now bound and helpless in this psycho’s apartment.
Mr. Morris approached his army of whiskey bottles and, acting like a general, selected a soldier for another mission. He twisted off the cap and finished the dregs of the bottle, wiping his mouth with his forearm.
Then he squatted down next to me.
“What are you doing here?”
I stared straight into his light blue eyes. “I’m delivering your package . . . or gift . . . or envelope. Whatever the fuck you ordered is what I’m delivering, dude. Take my backpack and just let me go.”
The man stank. It was a putrid mixture of body odor, stale alcohol, and something sweet like perfume. I felt nauseous.
“I didn’t order anything.”
I nodded toward his empty bottles. “Maybe you got drunk and forgot you ordered something from Amazon. Happens all the time. Just untie me and we can work this out-”
He reached across me and I froze. Was he going to hurt me? Torture me? Was he going to force me to transfer all my money to an offshore bank account?
No. All he did was turn on a nearby lamp.
I wish he hadn’t.
The new light allowed me to see the woman tied up on the couch. Her hands and legs were bound and a gag had been inserted into her mouth. Our eyes met and a look of complete horror washed over her face. She began to whimper and shake her body but the knots held.
My bladder did not.
Warm piss soaked through my pants and unbidden tears rolled down my cheeks. The weight of my situation suddenly became heavier. Mr. Morris was not only mentally unwell, he was downright evil.
“Pl - Pl - Please let me go. I won’t tell anyone-”
He slapped me across the face so hard my nose began to bleed again.
“What’s your name and where are you from?” Mr. Morris asked.
“I - I - I don’t know.” An excruciating headache bored into my brain. “I just want to leave.”
He stared at me impatiently. “What’s your name and where are you from?”
“J - J - John. I’m John and I’m from here.”
“Where is here?”
“What?”
“Where are you from?”
“Here! In fucking New York City you crazy son of a bitch!”
The woman on the couch was twisting her body, trying desperately to wrench free from her binds. Her muffled screams were barely louder than a whisper. I could smell the sweetness of her perfume waft in my direction. It was a terrible contradiction. That sweet scent should be in a park somewhere, or party, enjoying the freedom of the day. Not here.
Mr. Morris paced to the wall covered by a giant world map. He found another bottle of whiskey nearby and started taking small sips while he placed a pin on the map directly on New York City. Pins marked different areas all over the country. Deranged notes were scribbled in the oceans. The old man disappeared down the hall and was out of sight. I took the time to get the woman’s attention.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” I whispered.
She nodded but there was no faith in it. She didn’t believe me, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure I believed myself.
“I promise,” I added. It was more of a promise to myself to keep fighting. To find a way out of this.
Mr. Morris returned with my backpack in tow. He unzipped it and pulled out my wallet. A quick scan of the contents left him unimpressed.
“You’re John . . . from New York?”
“Yeah. You can keep the debit card and credit cards. I’ll tell you the passwords-”
He took something out then tossed my wallet aside. “You don’t know the passwords.”
My face scrunched into confusion. “What? Yes I do.”
“What’s your debit card password then?”
“The pin number is . . . um . . . wait, give me a second. I must have hit my head harder than I thought. Just let me think for a second.” And it was the truth. The mental fog of my attack and the high stress situation had deteriorated my memory. I couldn’t even think of a four-digit number I’d used hundreds of times.
Mr. Morris approached me then knelt down beside me again. His eyes were no longer blue, but amber in the dim lamp light. Something resembling pity shrouded his face.
“I want to tell you something . . . John from New York. Something that is going to be difficult for you to believe but you must believe it. If you don’t . . . then I have to kill you.”
“Oh, God . . . Oh, God.” Tears rolled down my cheeks. My nose had stopped dripping and all I could smell was dried blood and the old man’s odor. Overwhelming fear clutched my spine and refused to release me. I was going to die here.
“I don’t want to kill you. You don’t deserve that. It’s not your fault that you’re here.”
I looked up at him with an accusatory glare.
He frowned. “It’s not my fault either. Like I told you, I didn’t order anything to be delivered to my residence.”
“Then - then whose fault is it?”
He breathed deeply then he patted my knee like a comforting grandfather. “You’ve been seized by The Shepherds.”
My headache spiraled into a full-blown migraine. “The Shepherds?”
“That’s what I call them.” Mr. Morris stood and raked a pale hand through is white hair. “Humans have called them different names over the centuries, but it doesn’t matter what we call them. Their desires never change.”
“Please . . . let me go. You’re not making sense.”
“The Shepherds view humans as tools . . . um . . . as a means to an end. They want to craft the world to their liking and have been doing so since humans lived in caves. From my research, I’ve learned a lot about them. That’s why they view me as a threat.”
Mr. Morris pointed to his massive collection of documents, books, paperwork, and folders. He was obsessed with this wild idea that he was espousing. I pulled against the rope around my wrists but it was still taut. I had to get out of here.
Mr. Morris showed me a book. It was a very old book judging by the worn yellowed paper and leather binding. He flipped through the pages while continuing his incoherent ramblings.
“This ancient book was difficult to find . . . and pricey . . . but it’s been invaluable to my education on The Shepherds. They consist of a coterie of ancient entities untethered to the rules of known science. They use humans as pawns, feeding on our memories and psyche, until their rot is so deep that they can influence our physical movements and birth false memories that we believe. That’s why you’re here, Marcus. You’re under the spell of The Shepherds.”
“Marcus? I’m John. I told you that. You’re having a manic episode-”
Mr. Morris proffered the item he’d taken out of my wallet. It was my driver’s license. I noticed my photo first and it was the same...
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